


Got You Inside my Edges

by Caeseria



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Accidents, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Skating, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fingerfucking, Flirting, Hockey, Ice Skating, Injury, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Up, Manhandling, Public Declarations of Love, Rivalry, Rivals to Lovers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, aggressive flirting via figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeseria/pseuds/Caeseria
Summary: This is Lance's year.  He's fought so hard, sacrificed so much to make it to the upper echelons of figure skating royalty.  This is the year he's gonna win.Until Keith Kogane shows up, that is: ex hockey player, newly minted men's figure skater, who now seems intent on also trying to take Lance's gold medal before he even gets to wear it.This is the story of their rivalry, and of how they got together.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 212





	Got You Inside my Edges

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's been like, two years since I tried to write figure skating fic. I had to do some quick research to get back on track.
> 
> I was going to write a part two of the Christmas shack fic, but this hit me hard so you get this instead. I hope you enjoy figure skater Lance and Hockey Boy; aka Keith :D
> 
> You can find me on twitter as caeseria_nsfw if you wanna scream at me about Klance and figure skating. <3

**Strike One – Summer 2025**

Lance tightens the laces on his skates and then moves into working methodically through his warm up stretches, mentally going through the steps of his short program that he wants to discuss with his coach later. He's got some ideas for Allura, but he knows she's going to push him with his jumps this year. Lance has always believed that presentation is where it counts; anyone can stack the deck with flashy jumps. He also views skating as a dance; a love letter to the ice. Allura would usually agree, but this year, she wants to see him up the technical aspects of his programs, to score higher on his GOE. They need the other skaters to take him seriously; to treat him as more than just another up and coming, talented seventeen year old. She says he can't be properly competitive unless he stops relying on his presentation so much – the judges will be looking for more from him. 

He lets out a long breath – more of a sigh – and stands upright, getting a final stretch in. Once he's done, he strips off his jacket, makes sure his air pods aren't going to come loose, and steps towards the ice. He takes off his skate guards, placing them on the edge of the boards next to his bottle of water, and looks up, taking a quick glance at the ice.

What should be pristine, newly formed virgin ice is – is –

What the _fuck_ happened to his ice? It's all cut up to shit. 

Lance throws himself onto the ice, skating furiously out into the centre and towards the lone figure gliding lazily around, hockey stick in hand. The figure makes his way to the far end of the ice, drops a puck and swings around abruptly, and then rushes the length of the rink. He skims past Lance, frigid air displaced by his movements, leaning to the side at the last minute to avoid body checking him. The puck flies by, between Lance's skates, and he squawks indignantly, chasing down the rink after his interloper.

"Hey!" Lance shouts. "Hey, mullet!" Okay, so he's not proud of that one, but it's all that comes to mind at the moment since his brain is running purely on indignation.

The hockey player swings around again, and for a moment, Lance thinks it's entirely possible the guy is gonna rush him again. Lance stops, hands on hips, and scowls in his general direction, daring the asshole to try it. Adrenaline shoots through Lance, excitement and fear rolled up into one heady cocktail that threatens to make his head spin. The man skates lazily toward Lance, and objectively, Lance can't help but notice how smoothly he skates, how perfectly in control he is, even when he's not trying. He's also super hot, with piercing, dark violet, almost black eyes and a generous mouth – one that's currently smirking at him, smile resting at the corner of his lips.

"Hey, this is my rink time," Lance says, cursing himself when what was supposed to be a declaration comes out sounding more like a breathy request. _Dammit, McClain, get your shit together_ , he thinks. 

Hockey Boy grins. "Oh yeah? Well, I kinda got here first. What are you going to do about it, princess?" he asks. He pushes off on one skate, slowly circling around Lance and forcing Lance to turn to keep him in view. 

Lance grits his teeth; he hates being put at a disadvantage like this. Lance turns on his edges, anticipating where Hockey Boy is gonna be next and places himself in front of him, reaching out a hand and placing it on his chest, pushing hard. For a moment, Hockey Boy allows Lance to halt his movement, but it's clear he's only _letting_ Lance do it. He's the same height as Lance, but he looks scrappy. Wide shoulders, narrow hips under the loose jersey he's wearing. Lance can feel the solid wall of muscle, warm from exertion and exercise, beneath his own gloved hand. Hockey Boy flexes, and then laughs when Lance pulls his hand back quickly.

"Get your Neanderthal ass off my ice." Okay, so not his best comeback, honestly. His mama would _not_ be proud.

Hockey Boy ignores the comment, just pushes off with a foot and glides closer to Lance, who skates backward, just out of reach. Hockey Boy glances down, rakes his gaze over Lance's body, clearly checking him out. Lance isn't sure if he's doing it as an intimidation tactic or not, but regardless, it makes Lance go hot, blush threatening to color his cheeks. He skates backward, with Hockey Boy following him slowly. Lance feels like prey, cornered by a predator who just wants to play with his food.

Lance feels a ripple under his skates: uneven ice at the very edge of the rink. He doesn't need to look behind him; he can feel the gentle touch of the boards at his back now as Hockey Boy neatly corners him. 

"Sorry, what was that?" Hockey Boy says. He leans in, lifting an arm and placing his hand next to Lance, just shy of his waist but boxing him in nonetheless. 

Lance fists his hands at his sides, picks at the stretchy fabric of his leggings. He thinks he's going to combust. He's never been flirted at so aggressively – at least, he's pretty sure that's what this is. "I said – " his words catch in his throat. He forces himself to look at Hockey Boy, stare him down. Eye to eye. He shakes his head. "I said get your Neanderthal ass off my ice. You're cutting into my practice time."

"You don't wanna share?" says Hockey Boy with a grin. His hand slides closer to Lance's hip, so, _soclose_ that Lance thinks he can feel the brush of his thumb against his leggings.

"Share?" Lance is having trouble forming words. Thinking thoughts. He's so, so fucked.

Hockey Boy leans in, until Lance can feel his warm breath against the shell of his ear. "Share the ice. Did you think I was talking about something else, princess?" He laughs, leaning back, giving Lance a wink before moving away, skating down to the other end of the rink. "I'll stay down here, and you do your princess twizzles up there, okay?" He waves his stick in the air, not even bothering to turn around and acknowledge Lance.

What the everloving _fuck_ was that?!! Lance wants to scream at the asshole for embarrassing him, for making him look weak. Lance McClain is _not_ weak; he's fought his way to where he is now, fought to get a world-class coach like Allura. Sacrificed so much – family-wise, friendship-wise, money-wise. He's sacrificed his mornings to train, his social life is almost non-existent, but he knows he can make it. He has the talent and the drive to succeed. This is his year.

He's not going to be intimidated by some hot looking hockey jock who's good with a stick. Lance grimaces at the double entendre and lets out a growl of frustration, glaring into Hockey Boy's back. 

Twizzles? _Huh_ , he thinks. _I'll show Hockey Boy a twizzle, maybe a little more._

He skates around his end of the rink, occasionally glancing over to where Hockey Boy is banging the puck off the boards, making a deafening slamming noise that reverberates into Lance's skull every time he does it. Lance grits his teeth. He can feel the ice under his feet. Feel the way his edges cut in, the sound the ice makes when he pushes hard. He can feel the fizz of a jump beneath his skin. It claws at him, dares him to do it. Lance tries to distract himself with a couple of camel spins, moving into a flying sit spin. He glances over to Hockey Boy, who is watching him. Hockey Boy catches his eye and looks away, but that movement makes Lance grin, sharp and shark-like. Hockey Boy is interested, and he can't hide his curiosity over Lance. He must be wondering what Lance is doing.

The puck ricochets off the boards again and Lance is gonna do it. He's gonna kick this guy's ass.

So. Hard.

The fizz under his skin turns into an imperative. Lance skates a circuit of his side of the rink, hands on hips, moving through a set of twizzles as he psyches himself up. He knows he looks fluid, like water, his movements smooth and yet provocative. It's a dare. A challenge. Hockey Boy is watching him again, skating lazily backward, curious.

Lance tries to talk himself down, out of it. 

The puck slams off the boards –

And Lance is moving. Gaining speed rapidly, skating the length of the rink in a split second. He can feel the bite of the frigid air moving against his skin, through his clothes, and his skates are firm on the ice. Hockey Boy slides to a stop, unsure of what Lance is doing, invading his side of the rink.

Lance flips around, skating backward, gliding on one foot, looking over his shoulder at Hockey Boy. He grins, and he knows in that split second, Hockey Boy sees it. His eyes widen just as Lance tightens his core, strikes the ice with his toe pick, leaning outward, before he takes off into the air, spinning.

Lance is close enough to feel Hockey Boy yelp, fall backward on his ass as Lance completes his triple. He's not going to attempt a quad without someone around to spot him, he's not that stupid. However, he has enough practice and confidence to pull this little stunt off without worrying about it going wrong.

He lands in a flurry of ice – if this was a competition he'd have lost points – but he does it on purpose. Ice chips rain down like glitter over Hockey Boy, sitting stunned on his ass on the ice as Lance executes a sharp turn around him, skating backward away from him. "Ha!" Lance yells, pointing finger guns at him. "Didn't want to share the rink with your lame ass anyway, Hockey Boy! Eat my ice!"

He turns around, and, to add insult to injury, comes to a hard stop right in front of Hockey Boy, spraying ice. He rests on one foot, toe pick on the other, casually, hands on hips, and stares Hockey Boy down. Hockey Boy is blushing, generous mouth hanging slightly open, long bangs in his face. He looks disheveled. Mussed up. Sexy as fuck. 

Lance wants Hockey Boy to eat him alive. To pin him down to the ice and dominate him. Show him who's in charge. Oh god, he's so thirsty, what is wrong with him??! _Keep that poker face, McClain_ , he thinks. _Don't let him see you crack._

"What's your name?" Hockey Boy says, voice gravelly, breaking on the end of the sentence.

"The name's Lance," Lance says, executing a quick turn with a flourish and bowing sarcastically. (Yes, Lance can bow sarcastically. He learnt that from the Russians). "What's yours, Hockey Boy?"

"Keith. Keith Kogane." Hockey Boy – _Keith_ , gets to his knees and stands up in one graceful, fluid movement.

"Stay out of my way, Keith," Lance says with smirk, skating back down the rink. "Go back to the minors where you belong."

Keith snorts. "Sure, I'll keep that on advisement, _princess_."

**Strike Two: December, 2027 – Grand Prix Final**

Two years have passed since Lance encountered Hockey Boy at the rink that day. Lance had found out later from Allura that Hockey Boy's brother, Shiro, owned the rink, and Keith had a free pass to skate whenever he liked, which explained Keith's rude interruption.

Keith didn't go 'back to the minors' as Lance hoped. No, Keith was one of those annoying prodigy types who are good at everything, and anything. Turns out that when Keith had had his tête-à-tête with Lance on the ice, he was already marked for great things, had already had draft prospects for the NHL.

Instead – _instead_ , Keith had suddenly pulled out from the hockey spotlight, disappearing from sight, and reappeared as a footnote a year later in the Skate America men's competition. Lance had pulled Skate Canada and the NHK, so he was spared from seeing this disaster in the making in person. 

Except. Except it wasn't a disaster. Keith Kogane could skate, although Lance wasn't aware that Hockey Boy would be able to pull off learning anything more difficult than a waltz jump or maybe a wobbly single in the time since they'd last seen each other, let alone find the grace and poise to be able to compete on such a ruthless, competitive circuit. Figure skating isn't just about jumps, it's also about style. Lance had grown up on dance first and then figure skating, and Keith – Keith played Timbits minor league hockey and when he got old enough probably drank beer by the gallon out of a jug and ate Cheetos for breakfast.

Lance'd sat there with Hunk, on the couch in their apartment, eating popcorn and watching Keith's clearly doomed attempt to debut in men's professional figure skating. 

When it was all over, Keith had finished third and gotten bronze.

The world was stunned.

So was Lance.

"What??!" Lance had shrieked from the couch, jumping up and spilling popcorn everywhere. He had pointed at the television with his bag of (now half-empty) popcorn. "How??!" Lance had spluttered. "How did he get good enough to figure skate?? We have toe picks!! They have… they have shirting as a way to intimidate your enemy!!" Lance had struggled for breath. "Hockey players don't _skate gracefully_ , they're in a constant state of almost falling over and only ridiculous speed stops them from falling flat on their faces! That is _not_ graceful."

"Well, he's definitely good," Hunk had mused. 

On television, one of the commentators had managed to flag a very sweaty, triumphant Keith Kogane down for a quick interview.

"So, Keith, can you tell us about your debut here at Skate America?" the interviewer smarmed. "What made you decide to switch sports? Most people try to conquer one sport in a lifetime, ha ha."

Keith had gripped a large plush purple hippo in one hand, and was trying to juggle three bouquets of flowers. His flower crown – which someone had thrown into the rink and he'd picked up – was slowly sliding off the side of his mullet.

Keith had laughed. "Um, I switched to figure skating because of a guy I met a couple of years ago. He was amazing on the ice; you should have seen the way he moved. So fluid; made my jaw drop when I saw it. Then –" Keith's eyes had lit up like it was fucking Christmas – "he was showing off, did this triple Lutz, basically without breaking a sweat. Threw shade at me after nearly taking my head off with his blades. I fell on my ass and then I think I fell in love that day."

Lance had made an unholy screeching noise, and more of his popcorn had cascaded to the floor.

On screen, the commentator pauses, clearly trying to decide if she was going to pursue that avenue of questioning or not. "So, you fell in love with figure skating because of a jump?" she hedges.

Keith had looked directly into the camera and winked. Fucking _winked_. "No, I fell in love with a princess, and gained a rival. I'll see you at the GPF if you can keep up, Lance."

Needless to say, the skating fan base and the media had gone insane: theories, fanfic and gossip had exploded across the net.

In the intervening year, Keith and Lance's rivalry has become something of a staple. Lance has never quite recovered from Keith's public declaration of adoration and instead has stuck with the rivalry. That's something he can do; he's good at rivalry. It's easier. It means he doesn't have to wonder what Keith was really thinking when he'd said those words on camera. Hunk keeps pushing Lance to actually _talk_ to Keith, but Lance is a professional at avoiding difficult situations, and so far has managed to stay clear of him in a private setting, electing to keep all interactions on social media.

Until now.

During the last couple of competitions, Keith has been looking more and more frustrated. Lance can see that Keith wants to talk to him, but Lance keeps ducking out. He had managed to avoid Keith at the rink all summer, carefully making sure his practice times never lined up with Keith's coaching sessions. And it looks like Keith has finally had enough.

He's after Lance now; he has him in his sights. Lance would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying the chase – the thrill of it, the anticipation of getting caught. Wondering how badly Keith wants it – wants him. How far he might go in order to corner Lance. And Lance isn't going to admit this to anyone, hell no, but sometimes, Lance wants Keith to catch him. Wants to know what Hockey Boy would do to him if he had Lance backed into the boards again, body pressed tight against his, breath against his neck. Lance wonders if he'd bare his neck to Keith, submit to the chase, or if he'd push back, struggle against his fate like wounded prey would, make Keith work for it.

And Lance… well, sometimes before he falls asleep at night, sometimes if he lets those thoughts coalesce, become real in the velvet dark of his room, if he comes gasping into his hand, body taught and back arched, that's between him and the shadows.

* * *

Keith finally catches him on the ice, predictably. It's the Grand Prix Final, and at last, _finally,_ they are both in the same rink, the same geographical location. They've both made it to the Final, which means that Lance gets to shine with his new, updated free skate. He's been perfecting it throughout the early season, working out the kinks, until it's one of the best programs he's ever had the joy to skate. Lance is in his element with the FS – he's got the stamina for the extended length of the program. His step sequences are legendary – almost as legendary as Yuuri Katsuki's, but he's been retired for over ten years now. However, Lance still struggles with his jumps on occasion. The majority of the time he's fine, but, if he gets especially stressed out, he starts to lose confidence in his abilities and he hesitates, and that can be fatal to a program. 

On the other hand, Keith is a jumping machine. He can hold his own in the artistic elements of his programs, is beautiful to watch, but he has a tendency to load his programs with jumps, and that's where Lance feels like he fails. He can't hope to match Keith when he's having a good jumping day, no matter what Allura tries to tell him.

Lance is standing on the edge of the rink, listening to the commentator announcing the skaters due up for the six-minute practice directly before the Free skate. As he waits for his name to be called, he can hear the gregarious voice of Coran Smythe, ex-men's champion figure skater and now commentator, talking with his co-commentator, Victor Nikiforov, in the nearby media area. Coran's loud enough that Lance doesn't have a hope in hell of blocking him out, and, if Allura wasn't talking with Victor's husband, she probably would have realized what a disaster things were about to turn into.

"So, Victor, what are your thoughts on this group of skaters? Do you think McClain is going to medal? Or will Kogane sweep in and steal the spotlight?"

"Hmmm." Nikiforov sounds like he's contemplating the question seriously. "Lance has had a good solid year, and his step sequences are fantastic, aren't they? Almost as good as my Yuri's."

Coran laughs. Lance feels a bit like he's watching a train wreck. That these two have the ability to make or break his upcoming program. It's a foolish thought; they are just there to commentate for the audience, but Lance feels jittery. The bravado is gone, and instead the warmth he usually feels at the thought of skating near Keith, alongside him even, turns to ashes.

"Kogane is good," Victor adds, and Lance's anxiousness dials up a notch. _Where is Allura?_ He could do with a pep-talk right about now. "If Keith can nail those jumps successfully - if, because he's loaded three jumps into the second half of the program, including a combination – "

"You're not a fan of that, are you, Victor?" Coran interrupts.

"It's not an artistic choice I would make," Victor agrees. "I don't like it, but I'm not skating, am I?"

Coran pauses dramatically. "So, final thoughts for the upcoming six skaters, Victor?"

Lance glances back over his shoulder to look at Victor. He can almost see the man he was – he can see them both – him and Yuuri, dressed in blue and pink for their final, incredible exhibition skate to Stammi Vicino in Barcelona that year. 

Victor laughs softly again, musical and light. "If McClain can keep it together and get through the artistic elements of his program without error, and land at least two of his jumps, he's got the championship in the bag."

 _Fuck_. Victor makes it sound so simple. Lance hears the announcer call his name, and he steps onto the ice, gliding toward the middle, listening with half an ear to the spiel about his career highlights. He watches Keith circle the ice, and for a moment, he looks like a predator again, all steel and determination like the first time they ran into each other at the rink. Lance's heart skips a beat and heat floods his system, warming him up. He can feel the rivalry bubbling to the surface, mixed with a heady cocktail of desire.

The nerves burn away, and Lance is suddenly fueled with determination. He remembers Keith's words: _he was showing off, did this triple Lutz, basically without breaking a sweat_. 

Keith's words niggle at him. They make Lance want to prove himself to Keith again, to show him who's the professional figure skater. To show Keith that Lance still has it; still has the ability to inspire him. Lance doesn't usually do jumps in practice before a competition, he thinks it's just asking for trouble. Why psyche yourself out failing a jump in a practice when you can succeed in the competition? But.

 _But_.

He knows he's going to do it.

All six skaters break off and start skating around the rink, working on parts of their programs, psyching themselves up for the actual competition. Lance can see Allura out of the corner of his eye, trying to catch his attention. She's clearly finished talking with Yuri Katsuki, focused on Lance now if he'd only cooperate. Lance glances around the arena, spots Hockey Boy down at the far end, in the middle of an intimidation standoff against one of the Russian skaters as they both go for a jump. Keith's a hockey player at heart, so the Russian can try as much intimidation as he wants and it's not going to phase Keith. Lance snorts as the Russian backs off at the last moment, skating to the side rather than attempting the jump. Keith rocks into a tight turn and goes straight into a double axel, warming up as the crowd claps excitedly. 

Lance grits his teeth at the ease with which Keith just faces into the jump and pulls it off. That extra half-rotation is nothing to him, merely an inconvenience. Lance bides his time, works through part of his step sequence, until Keith comes skating toward his end of the rink.

Lance has got him now. He can see the flush of exertion across Keith's cheekbones, the sparkle of excitement in his eyes. He looks like he's about to say something, but Lance isn't interested. Can't let Keith see how much he affects Lance, how badly his skating and his looks and his bold declarations throw Lance off his game. How much Lance wants to believe Keith's admiration is real.

So, as Keith skates toward Lance, Lance can see Hockey Boy is setting up for another jump. He's coming in forward, so it's gonna be an axel again: predictable. Lance swivels, picks up speed, and launches into his signature Lutz, getting some decent air. He's going for a double, aware he's showing off but keeping it low key.

Lance doesn't see the Russian, coming back in, stupidly, to try to psyche out Keith yet again. Just as Lance launches into the jump, he sees Keith's expressive, beautiful eyes widen in horror.

It's a triple disaster; the Russian aborts at the last minute, sliding to the side on his ass, but Keith is airborne already. So is Lance. Keith adjusts midair, suddenly and dangerously off balance, pulling his arms out of rotation at the same time Lance sees the blur of movement and does the same.

The impact is horrific. Two bodies moving at rapid speed toward each other. Neither Lance nor Keith are able to save themselves, to pull out fast enough to prevent it. They go down together in a tangle, a rush of limbs, hitting each other like runaway freight trains and then after that, the ice, which is like smacking into a concrete wall at terminal velocity. Allura screams his name, and then there's only the sharp smack of his body, and Keith's, onto the ice. He hears the snap of a bone, feels the pain in his wrist moments later, and then everything goes swimmy. He can hear Keith calling his name; hands pushing frantically over his body, and yet he doesn't care. The pain is sharp and cloying, and yet all he can be thankful for is that it wasn't his ankle. He'll still be able to skate when this is over.

Through the haze of pain, the fuzziness of his thoughts – probably a concussion, he thinks – he mentally follows Keith's terrified voice. He holds onto it, grabs it with both hands, and uses his voice as an anchor, right up until he loses consciousness.

* * *

He comes to under the bright glare of hospital lights. Lance blinks rapidly, tries to focus on what's around him. "W'fuck," he manages to croak out, and then there's a hand on his bicep, gentle and kind. Lance relaxes into the touch, vision becoming a little clearer as the seconds pass. His wrist throbs dully and painfully, constrained in bindings, and his head is pounding.

"Lance? Hey, Lance. Talk to me, princess."

Lance groans, tilts his head to the side long enough to assimilate the fact that the soothing, gentle touch that had calmed him earlier belongs to none other than Keith Kogane. _Of course it does_ , he thinks.

Keith smiles hesitantly. He's sporting a bandage over his right temple, and his jaw is bruised, a little swollen. "I'll get Allura," Keith says, moving to stand stiffly.

"Wait – " Lance attempts to grab at Keith, but, oh boy, that's a bad move. " _Shitfuck_ ," he bites out. Lance takes a couple of breaths and tries to speak instead. "What the hell happened? Are you okay?"

Keith sinks down carefully onto the edge of Lance's bed, a roguish grin breaking out across his bruised face. "In better condition than you, or so they tell me," he says.

"I'm going to ignore that comment, Hockey Boy," Lance says weakly. "Seriously, though. How badly hurt are you?"

"Aw, you care." Keith pauses, the humor dropping from his face as he focuses on Lance. "I'm… okay, I guess? For a slender boy, you hit hard when you're in motion, McClain." For some reason, Lance thinks Keith isn't just talking about the accident, but that's something to puzzle out later. "I got bruised ribs, a bruised face, bounced my brain around a little when we hit the ice, but I'll live. It's nothing I haven't had before playing hockey, trust me. You're the one with a broken wrist and a concussion." 

Keith seems hesitant, watching Lance for long moments, before reaching out and laying his hand hesitantly over Lance's left hand where it lays over the covers. He looks downward, like he's not sure he can look Lance in the face. "Lance – I, I never wanted this rivalry," Keith begins. "I'm not sure where it came from, to be honest." Keith looks back up at Lance, expression cautious, like he's not sure how Lance might react.

Lance is… well, this little incident has sort of brought home in a rush how dangerous a sport figure skating can be. Lance has been lucky so far, hasn't had a major injury from a fall – yet. He wouldn't give up skating for the world, but it has made him realize he maybe needs to re-evaluate some things in his life, like starting with how he reacts to certain stimuli. In other words, he needs to grow the fuck up and look his rivalry with Keith directly in the face, and figure out his shit before he damages more than just his wrist and his head.

"You – " Lance clears his throat, and Keith takes a hint, reaching for a glass of water placed to the side and carefully helping Lance take a sip before easing him back down onto the bed. "Um," Lance tries again, feeling a little self-conscious suddenly. _Whew, okay, you can do this._ "You intimidated me at first and I rose to the bait," Lance says. "At the rink that first time. I don't react well to what I perceive to be intimidation tactics."

"I was flirting with you," Keith says flatly. "Trying to get you riled up."

"Oh, you got me riled up, already," Lance says, and then realizes how that sounds. "I mean – um, fuck. I don't even know." He moves to run his hand through his hair and then remembers the cast he's got around his wrist.

Keith huffs out a laugh. "What was I supposed to do with a hot boy in skin tight leggings and leg warmers, with an ass that doesn't quit, who clearly wants to murder me with his own figure skates. I had a hard-on for weeks thinking about that," Keith says bluntly. "You were so effortlessly sexy and sure of yourself. And that jump. Holy shit."

"I – what?!" Lance can feel his face heat with colour, and his head starts to throb. He needs to be a little less excitable right about now, he thinks.

Keith ploughs ahead, barely pausing, like he needs to get this out, and now before he changes his mind. "You know I quit hockey after that, right? I wanted to be as good as you on the ice. As graceful as you. I wanted to blow your mind."

"Consider it blown," Lance mutters.

"I wanted you to want _me_ , like I wanted you," Keith adds, like a final hammer blow to Lance's feelings.

"Keith, I – "

"It's okay, Lance, I get it if you don't feel the same way," Keith says in a rush. "I just wanted you to know where I stood, so you don't have to avoid me in the future. We can be friends."

"Keith," Lance starts.

"I mean, I'm good if we are friends," Keith adds, picking at the blanket.

"Keith!" Lance struggles to get himself in a more upright position, and eventually his struggles seem to register with Keith, who presses a button on the side, elevating the bed a little until Lance can get comfortable. Lance takes a deep, calming breath. He can do this, right?

"I should go," Keith says, moving to stand up. "I'll see if Allura is around."

Lance reaches out and grabs Keith around the wrist with his uninjured hand. "Keith, stop," Lance says. He waits for Keith to sink back onto the edge of the bed, to raise his eyes and make eye contact again. "I – dammit, this is hard," he mutters to himself. "I like you too," he says after a moment. "I was flirting with you too, although I think I've been doing it badly. Could we –" he huffs out another breath, "Could we maybe start over on the flirting? Maybe do it properly this time?"

Keith flushes beautifully, his expression clearing, a smile hovering at the corner of his bruised mouth. "Yeah, I'd like that," he replies softly.

Lance reaches out with his hand, fingers brushing the corner of Keith's mouth gently where the skin is swollen and bruised. "Was this me?" he asks carefully. "Did I do that?"

Keith shrugs minutely; Lance feels it more than sees it. "Maybe? Someone got me in the face. Might have been your pointy elbow."

Lance checks in with himself. "Yeah, you might be right; my elbow does sort of hurt. Your face is dangerous, Hockey Boy."

Keith grins. "So I've been told."

Lance smirks back. "Flirt," he says. "Hey," he brushes his fingers gently across Keith's face, careful to avoid more of the bruising, only wanting to soothe, not hurt. "I've um, heard that a kiss helps things feel better." He glances away and then quickly back at Keith.

"Oh?" Keith leans into Lance's touch, moving closer, but being careful not to jostle Lance too much. "I have bruising in a lot of places, maybe just as much as you. Want me to take a look?"

Lance feels like he might combust; probably not a great idea considering his probable concussion. "How about you just start with just a kiss, huh?"

Keith grins. "I can do that," he says, and leans forward, fully committed. Lance doesn't really know what to expect; it's been a long time since he kissed a boy. This kiss is everything he ever hoped for; gentle and hesitant, barely there to start with. A quick brush of lips against each other, a tilt of Keith's head, a hand on Lance's shoulder, moving up to his neck. Lance makes a little noise of pleasure at the back of his throat when Keith parts his lips, and Lance takes the hint, pulling Keith closer as they deepen the kiss. It's not hurried; it's exploratory and careful, a promise of more to come later, but a promise just the same.

"Damn, if I thought a concussion and a midair collision was all it took to get you two together, I might have masterminded this earlier," says Hunk's voice from the doorway. 

Keith jerks backward out of the kiss, hissing in pain as various bruises pull against his skin. Lance reaches out and stops him with a hand on his arm. "Stay awhile?"

"You should probably catch up with Hunk," Keith says. "I can wait outside while he fills you in on the medical stuff."

"Okay," Lance says, trying not to pout, or, to at least not let it show too much. "You won't leave yet?"

"No, I'll stick around," Keith says, squeezing his hand. "Wanna finish that kiss properly."

Lance is going to combust. He's not going to survive this – whatever he has now with Keith. He'll have a heart attack before he makes it to Worlds. 

And then – then it suddenly hits Lance. "Hey – what happened with the competition? I take it we got disqualified?" Lance asks. "Who won?"

Hunk bites his lip. "You and Keith were disqualified due to injury because neither of you were able to skate. The Russian will be up for review and a possible ban for the stunt he pulled, and he's been ejected from the competition, automatically coming last. That means you and Keith tied for fourth place together since neither of you were able to compete. The media is going a bit insane over all the drama."

"Sounds like us," Lance huffs out, but he's surprisingly not as gutted about the whole thing as he thought. 

"Here comes Allura," Hunk says, turning around to check outside the door.

"I’m gonna get going," Keith says. "I'll be back later to check on you, okay?"

"Okay," Lance says, fighting off a smile. "See you later, Hockey Boy."

Keith lets out an inelegant snort as he leaves the room, accepting a sympathetic, yet gentle pat on the shoulder from Hunk on his way out.

**Strike Three: March, 2028 – World Figure Skating Championships**

It's been a rough three months for both Lance and Keith. The collision had rattled both their nerves, and they've spent long hours both recovering and finding their footing and confidence again on the ice. Lance is still wearing a wrist brace on ice; he's not ready to skate without it yet, a final crutch for him to hold on to. He's been doing exercises, working on getting motion back, but he's taking his time. He doesn't need his wrist to skate really; as long as he keeps it close to his body when he jumps, and he doesn't fall, he'll be fine. 

So, he's gonna have to skate cleanly without putting a hand down on the ice when he jumps. _Whew_. That's a terrifying thought: he's gonna have to skate perfectly, basically a flawless program.

Easier said than done.

Keith has been a bastion of strength and support for Lance in the intervening months. They've moved slowly with their relationship; both of them needing to heal and also to get back on the ice. Practices come first, socializing and the occasional date second, and most of those dates are about getting to know each other properly outside the rink; coffee dates, snuggling on the couch, all the things Lance wouldn't have thought he'd ever be seen dead doing with Keith Kogane of all people.

And yet here they are three months later: at Worlds, both of them qualified in the final group of twenty –four skaters to make it to the free skate. It's all or nothing at this point, winner takes all.

And then the unimaginable happens for Lance: he skates his FS flawlessly. He lands his jumps, including the combination he'd decided to put in the back half, and scores high on his PCS. He beats Keith by two points.

Lance has gotten gold at Worlds.

_Holy fuck._

* * *

Lance has excitement buzzing under his skin, desire pulling at him. And it's all aimed at Keith. They've pretty much been all business and no fun since the GPF; and now it's all come to a head. Lance wants more than just Keith's kisses, soft and sweet, he wants to be taken apart, slowly, made anew. He wants Keith inside him, wants to be inside Keith.

Now, now all the stress from the competition is gone; there's no major dates on the calendar until the Grand Prix in October, and Lance feels liberated, free from all of his commitments – except one. He wants to make a proper commitment with Keith, move their tentative relationship forward into the physical. He knows Keith wants the same thing; he's said as much.

Lance gonna take it to the next level tonight. I mean, their whole relationship has sorta been about public declarations, right? What better place than the exhibition skate at Worlds to say publically, _hey Keith, I think you should totally fuck my ass_? He's gonna wait patiently until the very end because, as the gold medalist, he'll skate last. He's picked his program outfit and his song with care. Because really, you can't misinterpret _Hips Don't Lie_ by Shakira, can you?

So, Lance is waiting at the edge of the rink, zipped up into his warm up jacket, watching the bronze medalist skate to a hyped up version of _Yuri on Ice_ , because there's always that one skater every year who has to pull it out, dust it off, and get it remixed, but it's always a bit of a joke because there's yet to be a person other than Yuuri Katsuki who can actually pull off the program successfully. 

Lance wonders where Keith is. Usually he'd be found next to Lance, hanging out and shooting the shit, but he's been strangely absent since they'd warmed up earlier in the competitors waiting room. Lance had teased him mercilessly, hyped up on hormones and victory, the success of yesterday's skate still burning through his veins. He'd planted both hands on the wall, popped his ass out, and proceeded to work through a hyper sexual version of his regular warm up routine. Keith had flushed with what Lance assumed was arousal, and taken off shortly afterward with only a quick peck to Lance's cheek, eyes glazed. He hasn't seen him since.

Lance isn't too worried, however, because as the silver medalist, Keith is due to skate next. He glances over into the darkness, just to the side of where the bronze medalist exits the rink, and Keith skates onto the ice, still in his warm up jacket and a pair of black boot cut pants that looks like they have white buttons up the sides at regular intervals. For some reason that tugs at Lance's memory, something he thinks he should recognize. Keith does a couple of lazy circles on the ice, and notices Lance, leaning on the barrier at the edge of the rink. He gives him a grin and blows him a kiss as he passes by. Lance blows one back, ignoring the squeals of the crowd behind him. 

He wonders when Keith is gonna remove his jacket, because he's settling into his starting spot at center ice, skating circles in ever decreasing movements, and now Lance is super curious. It occurs to him that Keith hadn't really talked about his exhibition skate at all, always turned it back onto Lance and teased him about what he was going to skate to instead.

Keith comes to a stop with a slice of sharp blades on crisp ice, a sound that can be heard across the silent rink, and the house lights go down. This is what Lance loves about skating the exhibition programs; the atmosphere. By necessity, the house lights are bright and clear during a competition, but the exhibition gala brings a different kind of atmosphere; it's like cabaret, a show. It gives each skater or pair the chance to let a little of their own personalities and tastes bleed through into the entertainment. It makes the crowd feel like they are closer than before, almost able to touch just as long as they reach far enough.

And as the lights go down, Lance is just as breathless as the rest of the audience, waiting to see what Keith is going to bring to the show.

The spotlights come up in a warm orange glow, just as there's a trill of guitar that Lance recognizes like a kick to the gut, and Lance has just enough time to think _holy shit he's skating to Prince_ as Keith rises from his crouch on the ice, hands up in the air, before thrusting a hip to the side. The rink goes nuts, and Lance thinks his soul (and maybe his dick) might have ascended. Because, there in the center of the rink, is Keith Kogane, former hockey legend and now, figure skating legend, dressed in tight black pants that show off his ass, a black crop top cut just beneath his nipples, and a fucking belly chain, channelling Prince like he was born to do it.

_You don't have to be beautiful  
To turn me on  
I just need your body, baby  
From dusk 'til dawn_

Keith is skating, eating up the ice, popping that fucking booty like he owns the world, singing along to the lyrics to _Kiss_ like he's been doing it his entire life. 

Lance, along with most of the audience, seem to have their eyes glued to the beautiful, tight expanse of Keith's abs as he skates, accentuated by the low cut pants that look painted on. 

And then that fucker pauses, stares across the ice so Lance is in no doubt he's the center of Keith's attention, and rips off that crop top, flinging it carelessly to the side. Lance's mouth falls open, and then – then Keith is down on his knees, sliding across the ice, arching his back, hand stretched out to caress the ice. He turns, sliding on his stomach for brief seconds before jumping back up _(what the fuck - ?)_ and skates the length of the rink. He turns backward, setting up for a jump, but only bothers with a double because he doesn't really need to prove anything, he's just playing around at this point. He skates past Lance, winks and then works the rest of the crowd, always drawing his attention back to Lance. By the end of the song, he's leaning over the boards, tugging an unresisting and incredibly turned on Lance toward him. Lance goes up on his toe picks, letting Keith tug him forward.

Keith slips a hand around the back of Lance's neck, and whispers hotly into his ear, breath coming fast from exertion;

_I just want your extra time and your…_

_Kiss_

Lance doesn't remember the next few moments after that. He's turned on, raring to go, and now he's got to remember how to skate a program full of super complicated moves and step sequences because he's an idiot, and thought he'd get to seduce Keith first.

Dammit.

* * *

Keith strides down the corridor of the hotel, arms firmly wrapped around Lance's butt, who at some point thought _fuck it, I'm too horny_ , and had jumped up into his arms. The only things currently keeping them both upright is momentum, Lance's world-class figure skater thighs, which are wrapped around Keith's waist, and the need to reach a bed, stat.

Keith's still in his exhibition skate outfit, because Lance told him not to take it off – yet. Lance is mouthing across Keith's neck; he can taste Keith's sweat, clean and sharp, the evidence of his exertion, feel the heat of his skin. He bites down a little, unable to help himself. "Keith," he pouts, nipping at the skin, "hurry up, want – _need_ , you to fuck me."

Keith staggers a little under Lance's onslaught; he leans against the wall as he fumbles for his key card. It takes a couple of swipes but he gets the door open, and Lance slides down, grabbing Keith's hand and tugging him inside. Keith's quicker however, tugs Lance forward and slams the door behind them. Then he's crowding Lance up against the door, sliding his leg between Lance's thighs, pushing up just enough to press against Lance's erection. Lance's legs shake he's so keyed up, hands scrabbling at Keith's crop top (which he'd had to put back on, alas) and instead gives up and moans, letting his head fall back against the door.

"Fuck, Lance, you are so goddamn hot," Keith says heatedly, pressing open mouthed kisses across Lance's skin, while his hands drop down to Lance's waist, smoothing over his pants to his hips. He squeezes, fingers digging in for a moment, and then pushes Lance's hips against the door, holding him in place while he kisses up his neck and then along his jaw. 

The manhandling, the power play, and then being held in place, revs Lance's engine hard, and his cock throbs in his pants. "Oh, fuck," he stutters out, "Keith, please don't make me wait; I don't think I can take it."

Keith doesn't answer, just moves his hands and grasps Lance under his ass. "Hold on," he says, and picks Lance up like he weighs nothing. Lance squeals, holding on tighter, right up until Keith throws him onto the bed.

They undress in a rushed tangle of limbs and clothes, desperate to be naked, to have skin on skin. Keith gets Lance's pants off, spreads his legs, and drops to his knees, mouthing across the delicate skin of Lance's thighs, kissing his way up until he's got his hand around Lance's hard cock. He strokes Lance nice and slow, base to tip and Lance arches his back, head thrown back, when Keith starts nuzzling at his balls, little licks and kisses as he works his way further up, getting to the prize. When he swallows Lance down, Lance keens, unable to stay quiet, fingers tangling in Keith's hair to hold him in place, get more of his mouth, his hands on Lance's body.

Part of Lance wants to rock up into Keith's skilled mouth, to get himself off like this, but part of him wants more. Wants to reciprocate. Wants to make Keith feel just as good. Still, he gets one good roll of his hips in, feels his cock slide back and nudge into Keith's throat, and Lance's brain fritzes out with pleasure. He indulges himself once more before struggling up onto his elbows, and then upright. Keith seems to content to keep working him over, and now Lance can see Keith has his own hand between his legs, stroking himself off to the same rhythm he's blowing Lance.

Lance moans, the sound desperate, heated. He uses his hand to tug at Keith's hair, pulling him off his cock slowly. Keith whines, glancing up at Lance like he's taking away a favourite toy, but he lets Lance pull him off. The sound is wet and messy, and Lance's cock twitches when he thinks about getting Keith back on his dick.

"Come up here," Lance says, and it sounds a little like he's begging. He's really beyond worrying about that now; they've both been on a knife edge of building desire for weeks now, and neither one of them wants to wait any longer. The teasing is done with; it's over. "Please, Keith," Lance begs. "Come up here? Wanna return the favour."

Keith's eyes widen, and he bites at his lip. He's just as helpless to his lust as Lance is, and he follows Lance onto the bed, crawling after him when Lance shifts up the bed to give them more room. "How do you want me?" he asks, his voice husky, a little wrecked.

Lance lays back down and pats the comforter, a grin on his face. Ohhh, he's gonna enjoy this. "How about you come up here and give me some of that beautiful dick?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "Been wondering what you'll taste like for ages."

"Fuck," Keith moans, but it doesn't stop him from doing just that. He shimmies up the bed until he can turn around facing Lance's feet and straddle his shoulders. "You okay with this?" Keith asks, checking in.

Lance reaches up, tugging Keith down until his hard cock is just inches from Lance's lips. "I’m more than fucking okay," Lance says. He lifts up just enough to kiss at the tip of Keith's cock, and then Keith gets the hint, dropping his hips down a little and letting Lance take as much of his cock as he wants. 

Lance is in heaven; he's wanted this for so long. He's imagined what it would be like, how Keith would taste. What sounds he'd make when Lance swallowed him down, and he's not disappointed. Keith is vocal in his pleasure, oh my god. Somehow, Lance had just assumed that Keith would be a silent fuck, very rarely letting out any kind of noise, but oh fuck he was wrong, and Lance loves it. Loves the way that when he slides down the length of Keith's dick he moans, rich and deep, letting out a little sigh when Lance finally works up to taking all of him, nose pressed into the sparse hair at the base of his cock. How he lets out a shaking, excited breath when Lance fondles his balls, or kisses over them, taking one and then the other into his mouth. The way his body trembles when Lance pulls him down by his hips, the backs of his thighs, holds him in place and takes him deep. 

Keith may be vocal, and apparently loving having his cock sucked, but he can't stay away from Lance's cock for long either. Lance has completely forgotten about anything except the need to make Keith feel good, so it's almost a surprise to feel a hand wrap around the base of his own cock, the tight, wet heat of Keith's mouth as he reciprocates. He's still vocal, but now those deep moans he lets out vibrate around Lance's cock, and he rolls his hips instinctively, unable to stop himself. 

Keith pulls off with a little noise of frustration, before he solves the problem by pinning Lance's hips to the bed so he can't buck up. "Fuck, Keith, I'm gonna come if you do that," Lance says, half begging and not really caring. 

Keith grins, sitting up a little, reaching back to snag what looks like a small bottle of lube from under the pillow. Lance raises an eyebrow, and Keith sticks his tongue out. "What? Yes, I jerked off last night; I needed to take the edge off."

"Oh god, you are killing me," Lance mutters. "Get back down here so I can blow your mind."

Keith relents easily, eager to get off and to get Lance off. Lance swallows Keith back down, moaning around his generous cock as he feels Keith take him all the way down to the base. He keeps one hand on Lance's restless hips, and slips the other, with slicked up fingers, between Lance's thighs, circling around his hole. Lance jerks in surprise, but Keith has him pinned, was ready for his reaction, and waits for Lance to relax. In a few short moments he's able to slide in the tip of his finger, and then Lance is gasping, moaning around Keith's cock as Keith presses his finger in slowly, nice and deep, swallowing Lance down in the same movement. 

Lance is pinned beneath Keith's mouth and fingers, writhing in pleasure between them. His thighs fall open, giving Keith more room to play, and he can almost feel the way Keith's mouth curls in a smile as he pulls back and pushes in a second finger. It's overwhelming, and so, so fucking good. Lance can't think for a moment, forgets he's got Keith's cock in his mouth, and it isn't until he moans, and Keith's hips tick forward that he remembers. Then, Lance is scrabbling for the discarded bottle of lube, slicking up his own fingers and returning the favour, pushing into Keith's eager, welcoming body.

They set up a rhythm between them, fucking each other on fingers and mouths, bodies in sync. Keith's moans become richer, deeper, vibrate down Lance's cock to his balls, back to where Keith is fucking him slowly on two fingers, brushing against his prostrate every now and again.

Lance isn't going to last long, body shivering with pleasure when Keith nails his prostate. Keith's hips tick forward, and Lance pulls him closer, takes his cock an inch further down his throat, and thrusts his fingers. Keith _whines_ , a pleading sound that cries out for more, for too much, for not enough. He fucks Lance on his fingers, faster now, tugging gently at his balls with his free hand. 

Lance feels his body seize with pleasure, and his orgasm hits him hard, almost without warning. Before he can warn Keith he's spilling down Keith's throat, moaning around Keith's cock. Keith's pulls off Lance's cock, says, "Fuck Lance, I – " and gasps, releasing a second later.

Fortunately, Lance sorta expected that's what Keith was about to do, so he's ready for it. He's still swallowing down Keith's come when Keith thrusts his fingers back into Lance, lets Lance rock his hips, ride his orgasm on those beautiful fingers, moaning around Keith's softening cock. 

Eventually, Keith pulls away, slipping his fingers from Lance's overworked ass, and he flops to the side. "Holy fuck," he says, hands falling to the blankets. "That was incredible. Let's do it again."

Lance laughs, rolls to face Keith and places a delicate kiss to his lips. "Let me get my breath back first," he says. He runs his hand down Keith's flank, skin tacky from exertion, and tangles his fingers in the belly chain Keith is still wearing. "You gonna wear this again, right?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Because I really like it."

Keith grins, leans forward to stroke his hand down Lance's arm, tangling their fingers together. "Hmm, if you want. I wore it for you anyway."

"Aw, you know exactly what to say to a boy," Lance teases. "And by the way, that was quite the show you put on earlier at the rink."

"Just wanted to impress you," Keith says, unaware his unfiltered honesty is a killing blow for Lance.

"Consider me impressed," Lance croaks out, stealing another kiss. 

They lay there together, catching their breaths, until Lance shifts. "We should shower I guess? I don't wanna sleep all sweaty and gross."

"Hmm," Keith mutters, half asleep already. He opens his eyes, blinking up at Lance in the darkness. He watches Lance for a moment, and then, grumbling, shifts to the edge of the bed. "Shower together?"

Lance nods, because hell yes, he would like to do nothing more than see Keith wet and naked, damn. "I'll go start the shower," he says.

Keith shuffles into the bathroom, less a picture of grace and skating godhood, and more like a sleepy boy with post sex afterglow. Lance likes the look, if he's being honest.

"Hey, Lance," Keith says. 

Lance starts the shower, lets it warm up, before he turns to Keith, pulling him closer by the hips. "Yes, babe?'

Keith looks super serious for a moment and then he grins. "Hey, when we retire from singles skating, how do you feel about pair skating?"


End file.
